This blog will relate to my research of the Thirteenth Regiment, Massachusetts Volunteers of the Civil War. It will center around this and the building of my website dedicated to the regiment, 13thmass.org

Sunday, May 11, 2014

Corporal George Hill's narrative continues. The story is taken up when George and his comrades have been re-captured after roaming the Carolina countryside in search of freedom. (George Hill pictured- photo courtesy of Carol Robbins & Alan Arnold).

"Reminiscences From the Sands of Time" by George H. Hill, 13th Mass. Company B.

The glory of capturing yankee soldiers
was too much for them to sacrifice, and we were marched to the ferry and put
across by the saddest-faced darkey I ever saw. I think his disappointment was
almost as heartfelt as our own. Taken to
a plantation we were locked into a kind of a woodshed and left to our
meditation. I leave to your imagination
the feeling of disappointment which tortured us. It beggars description. We were well fed and, barring the scornful
looks of the "women folks," well treated while here. We were guarded by the men who captured us,
each in turn parading in front of the door, until next day when we were taken
out and started off, we knew not where. We begged not to be returned to Florence, feeling that any other place was preferable to
being again confined with the dregs of Andersonville.
The first night, after a journey of
about twenty miles, we slept in a jail, in a small village called Albermarle,
and such terror did a yankee possess to the women of this quiet place that we
were put into a stone cell, entrance to which was so small that we were obliged
to crawl through on our hands and knees. We were fairly treated and decently fed, and
next morning again on the road. We now learned our destination was Salisbury, N.C.,
which place we reached at about four
o'clock in the afternoon, and were, after eighteen days of liberty,
again inside the prison walls. We were
the first Federal soldiers to enter Salisbury
prison. When we left it, five months
later, over twelve thousand had been buried from its confine, and thrice that
number had entered through its gateway.

Sitting on the ground with those men - they were
good-natured old men and evidently pitied us - we tried to convince them that
we could do no further damage to their cause and agreed not to take up arms
again (knowing our time had expired some months before"); but all in vain.

Salisbury prison differed from Andersonville
in that it was not remote from a settlement, but on the contrary was directly
in the village or town. It had
originally been a hospital, and consisted of an enclosure of about one and a
half acres, with a stone paved yard between the buildings, which formed a
square and were six in number - one large brick building, two stories, used at
this time as quarters for deserters and others under sentence from the rebel
army, a wooden structure used as a hospital, and four small brick buildings,
which may have been used as storehouses. Beyond, or back of these, was an open space, and
all of this was surrounded by a high board fence. A platform extended entirely around on the
outside of this fence built high enough for the guard to look over and into the
yard as they walked to and fro. We were
not allowed to enter either of these buildings, but finding a hole leading
underneath the hospital (which set on posts about eighteen inches above the
ground) we crawled in and made our home on the dry earth, delighted to find
this shelter after our experience at Andersonville.We received rations twice each day,
consisting of half a loaf of white bread - the first we had tasted since our
original capture - and a good-sized piece of bacon, and congratulated ourselves
that we were, although prisoners again, better off than we would have been had
we gone to Florence.

A few days
passed, and then prisoners taken from our army - now in front of Petersburg - began to
arrive in squads of fifty to a hundred or more. Daily the number increased, and although at
first the fresh and vigorous condition of the men so recently captured
presented a striking contrast to the half-starved associates we had left at Andersonville, the exposure and lack of opportunity for
cleanliness soon robbed them of all this, and another crowded den of misery was
added to the inhuman record.

Our retreat
under the hospital was quickly filled, and filled so full that we lay at night
"spoon fashion," so close together that it was not possible to turn
without first getting general consent of the entire line, as all must turn
together, and it was no uncommon thing to hear some one cursing over an
apparently obstinate fellow who would not move, and at last hear the
exclamation, "This man is dead," "Well, turn him over," would be the
reply, and so accustomed had we become to death that no further note would be
made of it until morning, when he would be dragged out and taken to the dead
house (one of the small buildings had been devoted to this purpose), and after
being stripped of his clothes left until the old wagon drove in for its daily
load. It was cold weather now, rations
had been cut down one-half, and but for the extra clothing gotten from the dead
we would none of us have lived. No man
was buried with clothes on, or with shoes or stockings, in Salisbury. The needs of the living were too great to
admit of sentiment, and we were only too glad to "walk in dead men's
shoes."We had water to drink,
drawn from two wells, one of which we dug ourselves, but none to waste, so a
bath, even of hands or face, was a rarity. One day when we were, as usual, lounging away
the time under the house, Klingingsmith, who had gone out by the gate to see
what he could hear of news

from some prisoners coming in, came rushing out of breath
to the entrance and shouted "Hill, Rice, Trounsell, come out here - come
out!" Thinking the war was ended,
or at least Sheridan had captured Salisbury, we scrambled
out and there stood Billie Crossett.

Words cannot
describe that meeting; we hugged him, we kissed him, we danced around him, we
shook him, we hugged him again, while he, poor baby that he was, cried and
laughed with joy at meeting us again. We
gave him all we had to eat and took him into our cave, and that night the
"spoons" were closer than ever, for room had to be made for Billie. We had enough to talk about for the next week,
telling him our experiences since we left him, nearly two months before, on the
edge of that terrible swamp, and listening to him as he recounted how he waited
a day longer than we asked (so as to be certain sure not to endanger us) before
he made a move; then of his visit to one of the cabins at ten o'clock at night,
his kind reception by an old negro woman, who took the shoes and stockings from
off her feet and gave them to him to wear, how she kept him hid for nearly two
weeks, bringing others to see and talk with him, nursing his wounded feet and
feeding him with the fat of the land, until, becoming impatient to follow us -
whom he imagined safely inside the federal lines - he insisted upon moving on;
how then one of them walked with him two nights on the way and left him then
only because a longer absence would excite suspicion and invite pursuit, how he
traveled all alone, with no one to speak to all the long nights, and hid all
alone all the longer day, until his nerves gave out, and he felt he must speak
to some one or he would be insane; actually trembling at every rustling leaf,
and in imagination feeling the grasp of his pursuers at every step, he sees a
light ahead, and reaching a house, he staggers to the door and knocks, the door
opens and there stands an officer in rebel uniform. Who cares, in such a state of mind? Not he, and he tells his story. The motley suit he wears, furnished by his
colored friends, his youthful face, so uncommon in the Federal ranks - so
common in the rebel army - discredits his claim to being an escaped union
soldier and he is held as a deserter from one of the regiments at Raleigh, is
taken there and to a dozen different camps to be identified.At last, convinced that he is what he claims
to be, he is sent, with a lot of newly captured prisoners, to Salisbury, and
while standing in line to be counted, thinking all the time how hard it was
that he could not have kept on with us to freedom, his hand is grasped by
Klingingsmith, and he hears his name spoken in a voice he knows so well.All this, and more, he tells us, and always
ends with tears as he repeats how lonesome he had felt in his travels, and how
happy it had made him to be with us again. Once more united, we began to plan
another escape.

We started
tunnel after tunnel, one of which was thirty feet long, three feet below the
surface, but the difficulty of disposing of the loose earth taken out brought
discovery and defeat. A concerted
attempt made one night to break down the fence and overpower the guard resulted
in the death of eight, and wounding of twenty of the most daring spirits among
us, and the more rigid oversight of the enclosure. Thereafter, any man moving around after dark
was shot at without warning, and the most trivial excuse was sufficient to
excuse a wound from the rifle of one of the youthful sentinels who now
promenaded the platform, twenty feet apart.

This ended
hope of escape, and we settled down to wait for death, or release by victory of
our comrades at the front. So passed the
winter of 1864. The mortality became
fearful. Twice each day the big truck
wagon backed up to the dead house and drove away with its load of naked bodies,
six or eight deep, with legs and arms hanging over its sides and end, to be
buried in a trench out-side. No word
from home had we received. Tons of
letters, I have since learned, were sent through our lines, but scarcely a
dozen to my knowledge ever reached the prison to cheer those poor fellows
starving for news of loved ones so far away.

One bright
spot there was. Regularly there entered,
each day, this pen of misery an old gray-haired, tender-hearted man of God, a
catholic priest, whose kind sympathy and hopeful words of encouragement saved
many a man from despondency and death. I
am not a catholic, but the memory of that holy Father, as he moved in and out
among the sick and dying in Salisbury prison, speaking words of hope and
comfort, regardless whether to Jew or Gentile, has left an impression on my
mind that the lapse of time cannot efface.

The triumph of
the republican party, and the re-election of Lincoln in November, thus
demonstrating the determination of the North to submit to no compromise, was
the death-blow of the rebel cause, and the continued victories of our armies,
both east and west, news of which came to us through incoming prisoners,
encouraged us that the end was near and so we held on to hope that our release
was not far distant.

About the
middle of January rumors of an exchange of prisoners began to circulate around
the yard, and on the twenty-fifth of that month the first squad - of which we
formed a part -was marched through the gate and put on cars (which were on the
track just outside) and started for Wilmington. It was proposed to exchange at Fort Fisher,
which place had been captured by General Terry. Our former experience made us suspicious that
again this was but a ruse to change our location, and when at Raleigh we were taken from the cars and
marched to a grove of trees, and a guard stationed around us, we felt certain
that we had been fooled again. Train
after train arrived, and each in turn dumped its load of disappointed prisoners
and backed away. No explanation could we
get, but a sort of gloom appeared to settle down upon the rebels guarding us
and we knew something was wrong with them, at least. That night watching our opportunity when the
guard was down the line, Klingingsmith and I slipped across and deliberately
walked into the town.

It was about ten o'clock and the streets were
nearly deserted. We had read
occasionally a copy of the "Raleigh Standard," which found its way
into the prison, and knew that the editor, Mr. Holden, was as near a union man
as he dared to show. We were desperate,
and determined to find out, if possible, what was to be done with us. Hailing a passing negro we inquired where
Holden lived, and soon we stood at the door and boldly rang the bell. The door was opened by a negro girl, and as
the light fell upon us she started back, exclaiming: "For de good Lord's sake, what you
yankees doing way up here?" We
asked for Mr. Holden, and she called, "Massa Holden, here be two yankee
prisoners done be got away!" and at once a nice-looking, middle-aged man
appeared. He asked us in, and when we had explained our motive in coming to him
he (without in any way committing himself) informed us that the city of
Wilmington had been occupied by federal troops, which necessitated a change of
plans as to point of exchange and, on that account, we were stopped at Raleigh
to wait for orders; advised us to return to our comrades as the surest way to
reach our lines, wished us a safe journey to our homes and friends and then -
evidently to dispel suspicion of his loyalty - sent us guarded by a negro, to
whom he gave a revolver and instruction to shoot us if we attempted to escape,
back to camp.We entered where we had
left, the sentinel evidently preferring to make no report lest his carelessness
in allowing us to get out might get him into trouble. The news we brought (we were careful not to
report whom we had talked with) was received with delight by our comrades who,
missing us, had concluded we were off again for good.

Two days later
we again boarded the train and about noon
stopped in the open country about three miles away from Wilmington. "We were ordered off the train and, as we
looked ahead, we saw the engine was just at a fence which crossed the track,
and on one side stood a group of rebel soldiers and on the other side an equal
number of "officers in blue," and just beyond on a small knoll we
could see a squad of cavalry, one of whom held a staff from which waved an
American flag. We moved slowly along,
helping those too weak to walk, and as we passed through the line of rebel
officers were counted and checked, and then by the Federals, each one receiving
from the latter, as he passed, a grip of the hand and a word of encouragement. I can only imagine how others felt. I know how I felt myself. My legs trembled; I could scarcely stand;
every drop of blood seemed centered in my heart, and as I passed those rebel
officers I could hear the thump, thump, thump, and I held my breath in abject
fright lest something in my action should give offence and they should hold me
back again. Slowly the prisoners moved
along, and at last I was inside the union line. Not daring to look behind, I raised my eyes to
the flag and staggered on. Thinking of
no one; caring for no one; only wondering if it was true, walking as if in a
dream, almost on air, towards the flag; until at last, standing beneath its
folds, the blood began to flow again, and again I felt myself a man. Turning now, the pent-up feelings of a
soldier's life seemed to come to me as of old, and memories of cruelty and wrong
struggled for relief. Sheltered by the emblem of my country's power I almost
shrieked in triumph, and then, with failing strength, burst into tears.

Just then an
officer stepped beside me, grasped my hand and threw his arm around my waist,
exclaiming, "My God, George Hill, is this possible?" And looking up I
saw Bill Blanchard, a private soldier of my own company in the old 13thwhen I was captured, but now a captain of the
27th U.S. Infantry Colored Troops, and serving as officer of the guard. (Bill Blanchard, pictured) Insisting I should go with him, despite my
filth and rags, he took me to his tent, furnished me what he called "a
lunch," but what seemed to me a feast; sent to the quartermaster's and
"drew" a complete outfit - hat, shoes, stockings, and underwear - and
took from his own trunk trousers and coat;went with me to a small stream near by and assisted me in ridding myself
of the remnants of clothes I wore, and also of the five months' accumulation of
confederate soil I carried on my person, and then, arrayed in garments clean,
which seemed to me richer than those we read of as being worn by King Solomon,
I went with him to the headquarters of his regiment and was royally
entertained. Amidst all this a feeling
of guilt at apparent desertion of my comrades oppressed me and at last I
insisted upon following them to Wilmington.
An ambulance was ordered and I rode into
the city, found the boys quartered in one of the deserted stores and wondering
what had become of "The Captain."They had all they could eat, but were yet in rags, as no extra clothing
was to be found with an advancing army — my own good fortune being an exception
— but what of that? A happier lot of men
you never saw. But little remains to be told. Obtaining a sheet of paper and envelope I
wrote to my father, announcing my release, and the arrival of that letter was
the first they had heard from me since I was reported "missing in
action," ten months before. It came
to them at home like a message from the dead, for they had given up hope that,
even if a prisoner, I could have survived the exposure and suffering of which they had heard so much. The joy at home is best imagined; again my
powers of description fail.

As soon as
transports could be provided we were sent north, to parole camp, at Annapolis,
and (my regiment having been mustered out six months previous, expiration of
term three years) I was, after a week or two doctoring, furnished
transportation and ordered to Boston; was honorably discharged from the service
of the United States March 26, 1865, and left for my home in Maine.

Friday, May 9, 2014

When we last left George and his comrades they had just escaped from a train taking them to Florence Prison in Florence, S.C. They rolled under the train station platform when the guard wasn't looking and waited anxiously for a chance to escape.

"Reminiscences From the Sands of Time" by George H. Hill, 13th Mass. Company B.

[Part 3]

I have stood
in the battle front when shot and shell were flying around me and men were
falling dead on all sides; have been in that most trying place to a soldier's
courage, "the reserve;" have stood on picket, knowing the liability
of being pounced upon and shot or strangled, have advanced with the skirmish
line in the face of a blazing line of battle and charged in solid column the breastworks
of a hidden foe; but never did I experience the feeling of abject helplessness,
of mortal terror, of absolute fright, as when that last car passed the platform
and left us, subject to discovery by some small boy or girl as they played
hide-and-seek around that depot. The
fright which the presence of five live yankees would have given that little
village meant death to all of us, and we knew it; we dared not speak, we hardly
dared to breathe, and when a large sized hog (hogs run wild in that southern
village) came rooting at our heads, we dared not drive it off, lest its sudden
exit would attract attention to our hiding place.

Slowly the
twilight gave way to night, the lounging crowd dispersed, and we gained courage
to crawl together and plan "what next." Gradually we worked our way to the end of the
building, and then, first Rice, followed in turn by Klingingsmith, Trounsell,
and Crossett, passed out into the bright moonlight, across the road, through a
gateway, and then by a path over a hill to a clump of trees just outside the
settlement, where it was agreed all would wait for me, whom it had been decided
was to act as captain of our little squad. The anxiety of superintending the timing of
each start, and watching the progress across the village, had so worked upon me
that when my time to go arrived I trembled in every nerve and muscle, and as I
started across the road my heart stopped beating. It seemed to me that every bush concealed a
foe, and every rustling leaf was shouting "halt."At last I reached the grove, and after a long
breath of relief, we all together rushed like frightened sheep across a plain,
over a fence, and into a large field of growing corn. Here hunger got the best of our frightened
rush, and finding the corn just in the milk, we threw ourselves upon the ground
and ate and ate, until the crowing of the cocks and the reddening of the
horizon warned us of the coming of the day, and the necessity of finding a
safer hiding place.

We had now
regained our senses and were able intelligently to study our surroundings. A swampy grove, about half a mile away, seemed
to offer security and we hurried on and before sunrise were safely sheltered by
its dense tanglewood, and all lay down to much needed sleep. Secure in our hiding place, we minded not the
dampness or rough underbrush on which we lay, but slept refreshingly until
almost night again. We were roused at
last by un-quenching thirst, and the realization that no food at all was even
worse than Andersonville rations - Digging a hole in the damp ground, we waited
until it filled with water from the swampy surface, and, laying on our
stomachs, drank our fill, each in turn waiting for a new supply, and ate the
tender leaves of growing shrubs around us. We could hear the bells ringing in the village
we had left, and concluded it was curfew bed-time, and shortly thereafter we
left our friendly cover, and, searching the heavens, found our "pillar of
fire," the north star, whose bright light showed to us the direction we
must take to reach the promised land of safety. Before starting out, we had
perfected a plan of action which consisted of an Indian file movement across
the country, regardless of roads or paths - North, North, was all we knew.

The details of
our tramp for the first week of our journey, which began each day at dark and
ended at dawn, is uneventful; we avoided all habitations, living on raw corn
and sweet potatoes, and hiding during the day in dense woods or dismal swamps. Growing somewhat bolder as we became
accustomed to our surroundings, we decided to test the loyalty of the negro,
and so drew lots to see what one would risk a visit to some cabin and endeavor
to find out where we were and what direction to take to reach our lines, and,
not less important, get something to eat. The lot fell to Klingingsmith, and
after pledging that in case of betrayal he would insist that he was alone (thus
giving us a chance to get away) he left us just as the lights were showing
through the windows of what we knew were negro cabins, and with anxious hearts
we waited his return. Minutes were
hours, for it seemed to us he would never come back, and we had about decided
to move off when we heard a low whistle (the signal agreed upon), and he soon
appeared, accompanied by four negro slaves, two men and two girls, loaded down
with food such as we had not seen since we left our homes, - ham, cold chicken,
cold lamb, hominy, bread, cake, and cheese, and a large pitcher of milk. Great Scott! How we ate, while these angels with black
skins rolled their white eyes and showed their whiter teeth, in ecstacy of joy that
they could do something for "Lincoln's"
soldiers.

When we had
eaten all we could hold we gathered up the fragments and stored them as best we
could among our clothes, hardly daring to believe we would ever get more, shook
hands with our faithful servants, and left them waving their hats and aprons in
silent encouragement as we disappeared over the hill in the direction pointed
out by them as sure to bring us to the "Yankee lines."

After this we
never hesitated to make our wants known to man or woman with a black skin, and
never was our confidence betrayed.If
the negro has no other claim upon the people of this country in his struggle
for right and justice, if, in his ignorance, he sometimes falls short of your
idea of what he should be, remember his loyalty and faithful service in the war
of the rebellion, but most of all, his big-hearted goodness to all union
prisoners within his reach. My own
experience, in this respect, is precisely that of every soldier who had
occasion to ask help of the negro slave, or to put himself into his hands for
safety. LET US NOT FORGET IT!

From the
information we got from the negroes we now more systematically traveled, using
the turnpike roads, which were generally deserted after dark except by an occasional
horseman, upon whose approach the one in the lead would quickly dodge outside
the road, which signal was noted by each follower in turn, and so the rider
rode peacefully along, little thinking he had passed live yankees on his way.

One dark night,
Billie Crossett and myself were walking together in the rear (leaving a
distance between us and our file leader too long for sight) when directly in
our front came quietly walking along a large white horse and on his back a man.
Instinctively we threw ourselves out of
the road and flat upon our faces, but not before both horse and rider (who
proved to be a negro, evidently returning from a visit to a neighboring
plantation) had caught a glimpse of us.The
horse rose upon his haunches and snorted with fright, and his rider, in the
well-known accent of his race, and evidently in equal terror, in a voice low at
first but increasing in violence at every word, urged on his trembling steed
with, "Go long - go long- go long dar- go long, you damn fool," and like
a streak of lightning away went horse and rider, leaving us nearly as
frightened, but unable to repress a laugh as we imagined Sambo relating to his
family or friends at home that he had seen a "spook." It was a lesson to us, however, to be more
cautious, and thereafter we kept proper distance while on the road.

One day, while
waiting in a thick woods for night to come, we were seen by two white boys, who
started off on the run.Fortunately, we
also saw them, and knew we must move quick and get away from that locality. We struck off towards lower ground and were
soon up to our knees in a wooded swamp through which we struggled two miles or
more. We were none too quick, for, from
the howling of dogs, we knew the dreaded blood-hounds were on our track, and
afterwards learned that the boys we saw were sons of a well-known slave hunter
who kept a kennel of these savage brutes. These hounds cannot scent through
swamps, and we were saved from this danger. But, oh, how we suffered! No shoes, remember, and at each step roots and
stumps raking the skin from off our feet. At last we reached the end of swampy land and
came out into solid ground again and lay down completely fagged.

Poor Billie
Crossett, the baby of our party, scarcely nineteen years old, was a complete
wreck. His feet were raw, he could not
stand. We stayed with him one night and
two days, hoping he would be able to go on, and then offered to find a safer
hiding place and wait again; but heroically he claimed remembrance of the agreement
we had made the night of our escape, that "in case either one should
become disabled, or a hindrance, the others should leave him and push on to
freedom," and insisted we should do so. We worked him along, as near as we dared, to a
large plantation, and left him, with instructions to remain in hiding until the
next night, giving us a chance to get a good distance away in case our plan
failed, and then to get into communication with our friends, the negroes, whose
cabins appeared well separated from the mansion house of the estate. It was like leaving one's heart behind, but we
did it, and walked the saddest night's walk I ever knew. We shall meet Billie again before I finish.By the advice of “an old darkey” who knew the
country well we had decided to change our course more to the West, thus
reaching, if possible, the territory
of Western North Carolina, where we
knew roving bands of our troops often penetrated; or, better yet, that hot-bed
of union sentiment, East Tennessee.We crossed a railroad which runs between
Charlotte and Concord, N.C., camping one day so near the latter place that we
plainly heard the rebel bugle call for "reveille" and
"retreat," as we lay concealed, and at last found ourselves stopped
by a rushing river, whose swift current made it impossible for us to ford or
swim. Again our negro proved his worth. We
learned that some two miles below a ferry was run by a black man, and we were
assured that he was loyal. We reached
this ferry about midnight,
too late to cross, and secreted ourselves in a thick woods on the river bank.

Next
morning-again by lot-one of our number cautiously approached the grist mill
which was operated by the man who owned the ferry, and managed to interview the
negro, whose advice was that we wait until night again, when he would put us
across and find a trusty guide to pilot us on our way. Delighted at such prospect, I returned to my
comrades and found them busy skinning a small pig which they had captured
during my absence. Fresh meat was a rarity,
and we were hungry, so building a small fire of dry sticks, which we thought
would cause but little smoke (by the way, we were furnished with some matches
by the negro girls we first met), we were soon eating broiled or roasted pork
in fancied security.

No festive
board, laden with Delmonico's choicest viands, ever gave half the satisfaction
that this half-cooked baby pig, eaten without salt or savor, did to those four
half-starved mortals in their hiding place near the banks of the Pee Dee river.
But it was a costly meat: the smoke of
our little fire was observed from the higher ground on the opposite side of the
river by a posse of men who were in search of a slave who had run away after a
severe flogging. Thinking they had
discovered his hiding place, they crossed the river, and, closing quietly
around him, as they supposed, were surprised to find, instead, four union
soldiers, whose first intimation of their approach was the words,
"Surrender, or we fire!"We
were captured again, and our dreams of home were shattered.

Thursday, May 8, 2014

May 8th was a tough day for the regiment. With only 2 1/2 months left to serve, they had their heaviest casualties of the campaign on this day. I will start this story with Charles E. Davis, Jr.'s narrative from the regimental history, "Three Years in the Army." Following that will be Sam Webster's more personal account of the days events. [Sam Webster, Co. D, pictured. Photo courtesy of Tim Sewell.] Last, excerpts from a letter Color Sgt. David Sloss wrote in 1910 in remembrance of the events of this day.

From "Three Years in the Army"

Saturday May 7.

We remained in the earthworks until 4 P.M., when we were
withdrawn to a hill looking down upon the junction of the Orange
pike and the plank-road.Rations of
fresh meat were issued, large fires were built, and coffee cooked.

HEADQUARTERS ARMY OF THE POTOMAC,

May 7, 1864, 3 P.M.

(Extract.)

At 8.30 P.M., Major-General Warren, commanding Fifth Corps,
will move to Spottsylvania Court House, by way of Brock Road and Todd’s Tavern.

By command of

MAJOR-GENERAL MEADE.

In obedience to this order, at 9 P.M. we started for
Spottsylvania Court House, and marched all night.As we passed along in the rear of the
rifle-pits, we noticed the tired soldiers fast asleep on the ground, oblivious
to the steady tramp of soldiers who were marching within a few yards of
them.We wished we were in the same
blissful state.Finally the extreme left
of the line was reached when we entered a narrow, crooked road in the woods
which were dark as a pocket.Silently
and stealthily the trail was followed in single file, and with great care, as
the path became obscured.We were now in
the heart of the Wilderness.Instructions were whispered along from the head of the line to “Jump the
run;”“look out for the log,” etc., with
cautionary orders not to lose connection with each other, nor to get out of the
path. In this way we noiselessly marched until nearly daylight, when a halt was
made, and the men, tired out, threw themselves on the ground for rest or
sleep.We had overtaken the cavalry
which was in advance, and now waited for daylight, having marched only twelve
miles, owing to the difficulties we encountered on the way.We were now within four miles of
Spottsylvania Court House.

Sunday, May 8.

When
daylight afforded us an opportunity of seeing each others faces, it was
impossible to refrain our laughter at the comical appearance we presented. The
woods where we halted had been burned over by the fire which had been raging
for twenty-four hours previously, making a bed of black ashes which stuck to
our perspiring faces, so that, on waking, we looked more like drivers of
charcoal wagons than soldiers.

Some were hastily cooking their coffee while
others were engaged in removing the black from their faces, when we were
hurried forward, our division being in the advance.It was now learned that both armies were
hastening to Spottsylvania Court House.Our present position was near Todd’s Tavern, north-east from the town.The cavalry under General Sheridan opened the
fight and were soon relieved by our (General Robinson’s) Division.As we passed out of the woods we charged the
wooded hill in front, occupied by rebel dismounted cavalry, who retreated as we
advanced, making a stand on another wooded hill half a mile beyond. Here they
kept up a brisk fire, aided by artillery.Another charge was ordered, and up the hill we double-quicked, driving
the enemy from the crest across an open plain.We were told by General Warren that we should find nothing but
dismounted cavalry, but instead, we found Longstreets’s corps. [Major-General G. K. Warren, pictured] A section of a battery was discovered to the south
and east of us that had been used to retard our advance.The “Johnnies” were busy getting it away, so
we directed our fire toward the group of men and horses, hoping to capture
it.A company of cavalry now rode out
from the woods on the flank and hailed the battery.We supposed it to be Union cavalry demanding
its surrender, and consequently reserved our fire. We soon discovered our error
as we saw them running off the battery with drag ropes, whereupon we resumed
our firing, but were unable to prevent their securing the gun.

Little time was granted us for rest.

Soon we received an order from General Robinson
to advance on the double-quick over the plain. [Brigadier-General John C. Robinson, pictured.]
It was obeyed as well as it was possible for men to obey after two
previous charges following an all-night march.There wasn’t any double-quick in us.Though nearly played out, we slowly advanced, while the rebel
skirmishers fell back to the crest of Laurel Hill.The firing from the rebel line behind
earthworks on the hill now became general, and although the men of our division
(the Second) were exhausted, yet we mustered strength enough to make another
charge on this division of rebel infantry.As we advanced, the firing became more effective.The foot of the hill was gained.As the Thirteenth was picking its way through
the abatis and under-brush, shouting was heard in our rear.On looking back, we saw a whole brigade of rebels
in line of battle, swinging round from the rebel right flank.A general retreat was taking place among our
troops in the rear, so we followed suit by taking a circuitous route to avoid
the rebel line which was preparing to capture us.Upon reaching the hill from which we advanced
we halted and made a stand.Our loss so
far was one officer killed and one wounded, and fourteen men wounded and twelve
missing – probably captured.The staff
of the national colors was shattered by a solid shot.During the repulse, General Warren took the
flag with its shattered staff to rally a Maryland
brigade, a picture of which appeared in “Harper’s Weekly” for 1864, page 372.

Pictured below is the image artist Alfred Waud sketched of General Warren rallying the Maryland Troops with the National Flag of the 13th Mass. as it appeared in the magazine. Image is from www.sonofthesouth.net

A halt of a few minutes now took place, while we returned
the fire from still another hill on the Alsop farm.

At night we were moved out in front of the earthworks and
laid on our arms.

During the day the heat was intense.

General Robinson, our division commander, lost a leg in the
fight to-day.He was a real loss to the
Army of the Potomac, as he ranked very high, being considered one of the
bravest as well as one of the most efficient officers in the army.

[NOTE: General Robinson made a special request that Hospital attendant Chandler Robbins, of the 13th Mass., Company K, remain with him while he recovered from his wounds. - From information found in Robbins Pension files. - B.F.]

Diary of Sam Webster

From the Huntington Library, San Marino, CA

Spottsylvania – Halted this morning about daybreak.Laid down on the ground in the woods, which
had burnt over, and was still smoking in places, and went to sleep with a piece
of hard tack in my hand and a piece in my mouth. Turned out in a few minutes
and, relieving the cavalry, pitched into the rebels; we suppose, about 3 or 4
miles from Spottsylvnia C.H.They were
driven back to “Laurel Hill” inthree charges,
- very long ones, apparently ½ to 1 mile each – and where our division “stuck”
the army did also.Gen. J. C. Robinson,
commanding the division, wounded. Alden, Thompson, and others also.Thompson was hit in the back (small of it) by
a spent ball, as the line fell back from the last rebel position.In advancing, as the regiment came out into
an open field, the centre was between two gate posts.As it was necessary to move to the left they
“left oblique’d” – a rebel battery playing upon them meanwhile, and down the
road along which others were coming.

As
a shell passed Walker, who carried the National Color, he said to Joe Keating
who was with him, “That fellow means me.”The next shell cut the staff at the lower fastening of the silk, caught
the upper part of his knapsack and carried it some rods, spilling its contents
along its route, and knocking its owner some feet. I helped dress his shoulder
which was awfully bruised.The boys had
driven the rebs from the two guns, but seeing a Company of cavalry come out of
the woods, who hailed them, thought it all right, and withheld their fire at
150 yards, and Stuart saved his guns.Just after that in passing the woods Capt. Whitcomb was killed.Loss 1 officer and 1 man killed, 1 officer
wounded and taken prisoner, 4 men wounded and 12 missing.After repulse lay in edge of the woods.2nd Corps came up in P.M. over
same road as 5th. [Dennis G. Walker, Company A, pictured, whose knapsack was struck by a piece of shell and was hurled several feet from the impact. Walker survived the war. I don't have a picture of Keating. Photo courtesy of Mr. Tim Sewell.]

[Note: Davy Sloss carried the State Flag, Keating picked up
the National Colors when Walker
was hit. – B.F.]

Excerpt of a Letter from David Sloss

David Sloss who carried the State Colors for the Regiment recalled more of the story of the flag and General G. K. Warren in a letter to comrade William R. Warner, dated July 21, 1910. The letter resides in the collection of Colonel Leonard's papers at the Gilder Lehrman Collection in New York. [GLC3343] Post war image of David Sloss taken by Gettysburg Photographer Tipton, at the dedication of the 13th Mass. Monument, Sept., 1885.

In part of the letter Sloss writes Warner:

"We then went about a mile further when we saw a Battery on the edge of a wood we could see them getting
out of their blankets.The 39th Mass.,
Col Davis were ahead of us when we started to charge but did not go fast enough
for me so the two Regts were close together when a shell came down through the
center of the two Regts Killing a Lieut of the 39th and hitting D G
Walker who had the American Colors and breaking the staff.(I had the State Color)

[Pictured is a scan of the sketch of the incident as artist Alfred Waud drew it.]

Keating picked up
the flag and tied it with a canteen strap.We went on about a mile further chasing the Battery
but they got away.One of our Lieuts was
Killed in the woods.*We advanced until we came upon McLaws whole
division behind a low earthwork.We
fired here until we saw from this flank fire, then we broke and run perhaps a [?]When we saw Warren and Staff trying to rally the runners I got behind a
big tree and told the boys to stand as we could stand as long as Warren could.

Robinson had been shot
falling back his head on his breast and back to a tree.Warren
pointed to him saying “there is the only soldier in your Division you are all a
pack of damned cowards.”Every thing was
flying past us when Warren
seized the top of the National Color over Keating’s sholder and it parted he
waved it about 15 minutes in the Maryland Brigade that had some formation but
they soon got by.Keating went up and asked Warren for it but he would not give it to
him.I ordered the Guard to go and get
it and he gave it to them.He saw their [sp]
was going to be trouble and their [sp] was enough around there at this time."

*Lt. Charles Whitcomb was killed.

LIST OF CASUALTIES – MAY 8, 1864.

The Roster in the
book “Three Years in the Army” by Charles E. Davis, Jr. lists the following
soldiers killed or died of wounds received this day.I have added the appropriate number of years
to the soldiers age at enlistment to come up with an approximate age at time of
death.– I did not have time to check
the list against the Massachusetts Adjt. Genls. Roster. – B.F

Pictured at right is Rolla Nichols. The only one of the killed whom I currently have an image.

Selah B. Alden died of his wounds. (to the head) Corporal,
Company D, about age 31.

William Sanders. Recruit of July 1863, age about 32, Company
E.

John Schnell.Private,
Company E, age about 30.

Charles A. Williams. Private,recruit of July, 1863, Company E, age about
24.

Rolla Nicholas. [Or Nichols] Private, Company F, died of wounds June 2nd
1864, age about 26.

Thomas E. Bancroft. Private, Company G, missing after May 8,
supposed to have been killed. Age about 25.

Charles E. Colburn. Company H, private, age about 21.

Charles W. Whitcomb. Company I, 2nd Lieutenant, age
about 25.

Charles W. Mosher. Company I, Corporal, age about 21.

John P. Peebles. Company I, Corporal,age about 27.

William P. Farqueson. Company I, private,age about 21.

Charles F. Rice, Company K, private, was a recruit of ’62,
age about 21.

Wednesday, May 7, 2014

When we left off George H. Hill and his comrades had just landed at Andersonville Prison in Georgia, a few days after the Battle of the Wilderness. In this part of his narrative he describes his 5 month incarceration there. Keep in mind, George's 3 year term of enlistment expired July 16, 1864. If he had managed to stay with his regiment, he would have gone home then.

Would to God remembrance of this hell, controlled and
rejoiced in by that fiend incarnate, Capt. Henry Wirz, this blot upon humanity,
could be erased from our nation's history.To describe the sufferings of its inmates from exposure, starvation and
neglect requires greater power than mine. To exaggerate its terrors is an
impossibility.No one not actually a
prisoner in this "Chamber of Horrors" can form a conception of its
reality.

The sergeant
having charge of squad No. 1 (prisoners were divided into squads of one hundred
each), John McElroy, has published in book form a description of life inside
the stockade at Andersonville. I pronounce it the most vivid and truthful of
any attempt I have ever seen. He knew of
what he wrote. Twelve thousand
half-clothed skeletons crowded around us, and besieged us with questions of
news from home. Except from prisoners
entering from time to time, nothing was known inside those walls of union
success, while discouraging reports of real or imaginary victories of the rebel
army were freely circulated."Where
is Grant?" "Where is Sherman
?" "Has Charleston been taken?""Is there any chance of parole or
exchange?" And a thousand other
questions, all of which we answered, and all of which we, in turn, asked again
and again of each new lot that followed us into this crater of misery and
death. Counted off into squads - for the
purpose of drawing rations - we were directed to assemble each morning at the
call of the bugle, and then left to ourselves to find, if possible, an
unoccupied spot large enough to lie down upon.

Next morning
rations were issued for the day - a piece of corn bread about four inches
square, and a small slice of bacon. Twice each week we had in addition half a pint
of bean soup, cooked as farmers cook it for their hogs (pods and all). The last part of my stay here, when the number
had increased so there were twenty thousand or more, the ration consisted of
corn bread alone, and the size was reduced at least one-half.

No shelter but
the sky - no bed but the earth - no cover from the hot sun by day and the heavy
dew by night - exposed alike to rain and sun, there we remained, hoping against
hope, revived and encouraged one day by news brought by prisoners of union
success, and discouraged the next by the boastful bragging of the rebel
guard.Seeing one after another whose
acquaintance we had formed sink and die; ourselves reduced to living skeletons;
many to idiotic imbeciles; kept alive only by the one hope that the war would
end. And let me say here - among that dying throng not one word of copperhead
disloyalty; not one wish for that end to come in any way but with victory and
honor to the nation and the flag.Twelve
thousand nine hundred men died in Andersonville.

Think of it,
nearly thirty percent of all who entered that prison, gate were buried (most of
them in unknown graves) in the cemetery just outside the stockade, while of
those that lived at least fifty percent were walking skeletons of what we call
men.

It was here,
when it seemed to me we were deserted both by God and by the government we
loved so well, and when we had almost abandoned hope, I heard for the first
time that song (sung by new prisoners from Sherman's army) to which I never
listen, even after so many years, without a thrill of joy left over from that
memorable night:

"Tramp, tramp, tramp the boys are marching,

Cheer up, comrades, they will come,

And beneath the starry flag we shall breathe the air
again

Of the Freeland in, our own beloved home!"

If George F.
Root could have seen the joy which came to that throng of helpless, almost
hopeless beings, as they crowded around and listened to what seemed to them an
inspired message, and could have heard their shouts for repetition, over and
over again, he would have felt gratified that at least one of his compositions
had received its reward of merit, and that he had made good use of his
God-given talent to do good to his fellow-men.

At last Atlanta fell, and victorious Sherman
started to rescue the prisoners at Macon and at Andersonville. This necessitated a change of location,
and to more safely make this move the report was given out that we were to be
sent North for exchange. So many such
rumors had come to us which had proved groundless that until the first lot
actually left we took but little stock in this one; but when once convinced
there came a struggle - every prisoner anxious to get away, and under such
circumstances it is not strange that selfishness predominated to an extent that
it became almost a fight for life to get counted into a squad to leave.

Accompanied by
Fuller - between whom and myself had ripened a friendship born from mutual
suffering - I left Andersonville with the fourth lot of five hundred, and after
five months in hell was once more out into the world again. Sixty men in each
lot, we were put on board a train of freight cars and started, as we believed,
for home. At Macon we stopped for wood and water. Rations
of corn bread and bacon were issued to us, which we were told must last us
three days.

While stopping
here we overheard a conversation between one of our guards and a soldier on the
depot platform which dispelled our dream of home - we were simply being moved
to Florence, N.C., where another stockade had been built,
and no exchange was contemplated. Turning
to Fuller, I declared I would never enter another stockade alive, and together
we began to plan our escape from the train, preferring, if necessary, to die by
bullet rather than the slower death of starvation or disease which we knew
awaited us by further imprisonment.

Fortune
favored us. At a Junction we changed cars, and noticing one car with rickety
flooring, we managed to get in line to count into that particular car. Once inside, we persuaded a young soldier of
the 32d Mass.,
Billie Crossett, to lie down over a large hole, and covering him with our
jackets, we insisted he was too weak to stand when our car was inspected by the
officer in charge to see if it was properly filled and guarded.

After the
train started we began to perfect our plans, taking into our confidence three
more of our fellow-prisoners, Jim Trounsell, Henry Klingingsmith, and John
Rice, all members of the 11th Penn., the Bucktail Regiment - We
planned to wait until night and then at the first stop after dark to quietly
drop down through the hole, lie flat on the road-bed, and take chances of the
train passing safely over us. We kept
the rest in the car ignorant, even of the hole itself, lest too many would
attempt the escape, thereby causing commotion and detection. It seemed as if night would never come, but
about sunset we stopped at a small station in South Carolina, called Sumpter,
and our car being at the platform, which was crowded with old men, women, and
children (at that time every man able to carry a musket was in the rebel army)
we overheard the guard on top of the car ask, "How far to Florence?" "Ten miles" was the reply, and our
hearts fell, for we knew this was the last stop. It was now or never, and I crawled through the
hole, followed by Rice, Crossett, Trounsell and Klingingsmith, and watching our
chance when the guard was busy talking to the girls, we slid out between the
wheels, under the depot platform, and lay down as close as possible to the
building in single file. (For some
reason Fuller did not follow, and I never heard of him again.) The train moved on, and there we were.

Sunday, May 4, 2014

George Hill's Reminiscence has long been one of my favorite stories from the 13th Mass. Association Circulars. As it is the 150th Anniversary of these events, I offer you his story. It is very long, so I will divide it into separate posts - don't worry, I'll put up part two in a day or so.

The winter of
1863 was passed by the Thirteenth Massachusetts Regiment at Mitchell's Station,
Va., where it occupied the position of extreme
outpost of the army of the Potomac, in
connection with the cavalry, to form a picket guard. The duty was arduous and often exciting. With the vanguard of the army in the memorable
campaign which under Grant led up to the glorious victory at Appomatox, we
crossed the Rapidan river at Germanna Ford on the fourth day of May, 1864, and
became engaged in the Battle
of the Wilderness.

It is not my
purpose to describe the part taken by the Thirteenth Massachusetts Regiment in
this battle, or to record acts of heroism of its members, or chronicle its
fatalities.

Abler hands
have written its history and no word of mine can add interest thereto, or give
further detail of organized action.

Every soldier
has an individual history, and thinking possibly a simple story of my
experience, after leaving the regiment on that memorable fifth day of May, will
be of interest to my comrades, I will, as briefly as possible, tell where I was
while the regiment was following Grant to victory.

At about 4 o'clock in the afternoon, during a
lull in the battle, which had been raging fiercely all day with apparently
small results for either side, our regiment was moved by the left flank some
half mile and faced to the front. It was
apparent that no skirmish or picket line was between us and the rebel force. Colonel Hovey, then in command of the
regiment, called for volunteers to go forward and ascertain, if possible, the
proximity of the enemy. From a number
responding to this call, four were detailed to advance cautiously, each taking
distance to cover the regimental front, and report back to him.

As one of this
four I had an independent command (myself) and I know nothing of the action or
report of the others constituting the detail and have forgotten their names.

After
advancing some six or eight hundred yards I heard voices and distinguished that
it was rebel skirmishers in search of wounded comrades. Returning I reported to Colonel Hovey, who
detailed a company of the regiment to deploy and cover our front and ordered me
to go forward again and bring definite information as to the position of the
rebel line of battle. Retracing my steps
I passed the place of my former halt and seeing or hearing nothing continued my
advance some eighth of a mile, when to my surprise I saw, coming towards me, a
man in the uniform of a Federal soldier, unarmed. This proved to be Sergeant Fuller, of the
Ninth New York Regiment, who had been hunting for his captain's sword which was
lost during the engagement earlier in the day. Surprised that he had found no rebels in
front, I insisted that he should go back with me, and together we cautiously
advanced until within hearing distance of the rebel skirmish line.

Listening for
some time to their conversation, we learned that they were as ignorant of the
whereabouts of our line as we of theirs, and that they, like us, were waiting
to be attacked, and then, on our hands and knees, we crawled out of harm's way
(as we supposed) toward our line. The
wilderness! Who that was ever there
needs reminder of the dense foliage and undergrowth through which we struggled -
impenetrable at times except by little narrow paths made by feet smaller than
those of man. Feeling secure that we had
left our enemy behind and would find only friends in front, we boldly followed
one of those little paths, until, turning an abrupt angle, we came face to face
with four full-fledged "Johnny Rebs," whose leveled muskets touched
our bodies.

The far-famed
Coon of Davy Crockett never “came down” with better grace than did we as we
heard the words "surrender, or we fire."

"Tis easy in the battle's wrath

To lead the charge when foemen run,

But in the rifle's deadly path

With empty cartridge box and gun,

To stand, a firm, unyielding wall

Of bodies brave enough to bleed,

This-this- is heroes' work indeed!"

True to the
letter; but under these circumstances we were not "heroes" and not
"brave enough to bleed," and so, inwardly cursing our luck and
blaming ourselves for over-confidence, we marched back, inside the rebel picket
line, which we had such a short time previous left, thinking we were candidates
for honorable mention in the Congress of the United States. It was always a matter of dispute between
Fuller and myself which was to blame for our capture - he claiming that but for
me he would have safely returned to his regiment, and I, that I would never
have gone so far beyond our line but for him.

No special
attention was paid to us, beyond a few questions by General Longstreet as to
what part of our army was in his front, etc., and we were coralled with a large
lot of prisoners, previously taken, just back of their field hospital, and were
kept awake much of the night by the cries and groans of their wounded, under
the agony of surgical operation. Next
morning occurred an incident which demonstrates the difference, so marked all
through my prison life, between soldiers at the front, whose generosity was so
often shown on both sides, and the "hospital beat" and home guard
contingent wherever found.

While standing
near the guard line, talking with a fellow-prisoner, I was accosted by one of
the above described hospital attendants thus: "Yank, I reckon I want that hat,"
and before I could reply my hat was snatched from my head and from that time
until my release, ten months later, I was bareheaded.

From the
action of our guard it was evident that no victory had been gained for the
rebel side, and we were shortly taken to the rear of their line, some ten
miles, put on board a train of cars, which evidently had just brought some of
their own troops to the front, and taken, through Lynchburg,
to Danville, Va. Here we were quartered in a large brick
building, evidently a tobacco warehouse, and where we first tasted "home
guard" bravery and valor. The sight
of a prisoner at a window was sure to bring a shot from one of these brave heroes,
and a howl of cheers if any evidence of success attended the exploit. One or two prisoners were hit, none seriously,
but we kept away from the windows. During this time we were fairly well fed and,
except occasionally, had no cause to complain of harsh treatment.

We remained in
this place three days, and then by rail, in box freight cars, - we started
south. No stop was made, except to
change cars at some station, the name of which I have forgotten (if I ever
knew), until we reached Andersonville,
Ga. Leaving the cars we were drawn up in line and
systematically searched. So faithful was
this search that even our mouths were examined, lest some article of jewelry or
coin, or greenback, should be secreted beyond their ken. Some, whose shoes were good, were forced to
exchange with the guards for theirs, which were nearly worthless, and often
even this consideration was denied, and shoes, hats, and coats were taken,
leaving the owner nearly naked.At last
the large gate was opened and marching past the guard, into a large open space
containing sixteen acres, the walls formed by pine logs set end ways into the
ground and standing twenty feet high, so close together as to leave no crack
between, a sight burst upon my eyes, equaled only by the pictures drawn by old
time theologists of the place of torture allotted to the damned.